scars
by wild-and-whirling-words
Summary: Written for Round 1 of Lamia of the Dark's 'Test Your Limits II' competition on the HPFC. A deleted scene from HBP: As he sits besides Bill's bedside, Remus realises and affinity between them and remembers things that he would rather forget. T to be safe. Please read and let me know what you think. Disclaimer: I own nothing within.


Written for Round 1 of Lamia of the Dark's 'Test Your Limits II' competition on the HPFC.

**Prompt: **Lethe. **Theme: **Memory. **Bonus prompts used: **Fenrir Greyback; 'ephemeral'.

**scars**

Remus couldn't help but stare. The scars twisting Bill's once handsome face could so easily have been the ones marring his own – the only difference was time; Bill's were scarlet and still weeping, a vivid reminder of the bloody battle they had all endured, his own had long faded leaving behind a silver web of scars, a map of every full moon chartered against his skin, each track haunted by a memory of the pain.

The body in the bed could so easily have been his. Indeed, as Remus sat there, keeping a silent vigil over the sleeping man, it was almost as if it was, as if he was suddenly a child again, no more than four years old. He remembered slowly coming round to consciousness, blinking rapidly against the blindingly white ceiling with only the barest recollection of what had happened:

"_Mummy? Mummy? Why does it hurt so much?" Memories stirred, flashing up like headlines, broken and out of sequence: a sudden gust of cold wind on his bed-warmed skin, the intrusion of the moon – full and bright – the only light. There had been a pair of amber eyes and a glimpse of sharp teeth and even sharper claws…_

_He began to scream and thrash against the covers. He was strapped to the bed, arms, legs and torso fastened tight and the leather restraints bit at his skin but he could not lie still – he was on fire. It burnt at the join of his neck and shoulder, he could feel the flames devouring him, but no one was putting them out._

"_Mummy! Mu-mu-mu-"He choked uncontrollably on his sobs and could not force the word out, he tried to point but his wrists were held fast, but she knew. She came forward and she was crying too – he could hear her, a tremor in her hand as she stretched it out to smooth down his hair and soothe him. It was knocked sharply aside by an overseeing Healer._

"_We don't yet know the extent of his strength, we don't yet know what urges he might have, even in this shape; it's better that you keep your distance." Mother and son's eyes met mournfully. He did not understand and she could not bring herself to explain (that would later be his father's job). _

"_But he's just a little boy," Hope Lupin murmured, clasping her hands before her in order to keep them in check, "He's just my little boy…" _

Unbidden, Remus' hand drifted beneath the collar of his shirt to rest over that first scar as sometimes it did. His fingertips ran over the familiar wound, the skin was surprisingly shiny and smooth considering its violent origins and all that it had consequently come to symbolize. At least Bill would be free of that.

Bitterness churned in his stomach; Bill would bear the scars like medals. He would be called a hero for fighting Greyback – a "soulless, evil" monster – off. He, Remus, would ever be viewed in the latter light. Prejudice had been the beginning of it all and would surely dog him all the way to the grave.

Such thoughts were ephemeral, of course, brought about by years of loneliness, but the malice was no more deserved and almost immediately he was filled with guilt and regret and found himself apologising to the silent room – it was not Bill's fault after all. The scratches alone were a testament to the brutal, feral instinct common to werewolves and his exception from this had been perfectly clear in the time he had spent amongst Greyback's pack. Once he had pitied him, believing that he could not control that instinct to hunt and hurt. That illusion had been forever dispelled:

_Watching from the shadows, he'd pulled his cloak tighter about him. There was a permanent chill in his bones from weeks of living outside and sleeping on beds of leaves. He was no stranger to poor living, but he had always managed to keep a roof over his head, and this brought him dangerously close, at times, to wishing a transformation upon himself, if only for the relief a fur fleece would bring. _

_That night it was the full moon. Daylight was bleeding into dusk and already he could feel a trembling in his limbs. He should have been going, running as far away from here as he could possibly get; the lights of the village were blots against the darkening sky, the closest less than a mile away, but none of the rest of the pack was moving. They were gathered in a ragged circle several feet away from him, too far for him to hear what they were saying over the wind, but he could hear them laughing, a sound he was sure would haunt him forever._

_He stood, stretching his stiff limbs, a dull ache already creeping through his muscles. Greyback turned at the rustling of leaves that marked a disturbance and his yellow eyes hungrily into his own. There was an unpleasant smirk curling at the corners of his lips as he spoke._

"_Going somewhere?" _

"_We're too close." Greyback stalked forward and seized him by the scruff of the collar, ripping what was left of his shirt with his talons. _

"_Have you grown fond of them, Remus? Of _men_?" He forced himself to look into those cool blue eyes._

"_I am a man." Greyback's answering laugh had been chilling._

"_You think you are a man, but this, this tells us otherwise." He was running his fingers over the scar that his own teeth had left. "You are one of us, and we certainly aren't men." He did not say this as an uninfected wizard would, with disgust, even hatred, he said it with pride. "We aren't men. We are monsters, found only in their darkest nightmares. We frighten them." He bared his teeth in a satisfied grin, "So they keep us at bay with their laws and their restrictions-" his leer told him exactly what Greyback thought of the laws, "-but one night a month, we have our revenge because the beast, the beast in here-" Greyback jabbed a finger towards his heart, "- the beast in here cannot be held." _

_He'd swallowed and taken a step back, skin prickling at the mention of revenge; it was too close to home for comfort. He could not stand back and allow what had clearly happened to him happen to another innocent child. Greyback was looking at him, sizing him up, trying to gauge a reaction, to elicit a response. "So, Remus, are you going to come with us, or are you going to hide?" _

_There was no choice to make, but still he hated himself for doing the cowardly thing and running, especially the next day when he found out what he had not prevented._

_He came round, dazed and bleeding, in an unfamiliar part of the forest. The trees lying broken on the ground and the multitude of self-inflicted wounds assured him that he had not been caught up with the rest of the pack; he could taste blood in his mouth but the bite marks on his arms and legs were enough to convince him that it was his own. The blood around the mouths of the others when he finally dragged himself back to them, however, was another story. _

_One look was enough to make him retch and run again. This time, he did not return. He went straight to Dumbledore._

_The Headmaster had been absent from his office when he arrived and it looked as if he had left in a hurry. That morning's _Prophet _had been left open on his desk, running a story about a little boy who had been so viciously savaged by a werewolf that he had died in the early hours of the morning. Robbie Montgomery, seven years old. There was a photograph of him beaming up at the camera and waving, a picture of childish innocence. _

Remus saw that picture again as the memory surfaced. Truth be told it was still too raw to stray far, but he was interrupted in his morbid recollection as the door of the Hospital Wing banged shut. He jumped and sat up straighter, rearranging his shirt and rubbing at his eyes, suddenly exhausted. There came a sympathetic sigh from the newcomer, Mrs Weasley.

"Get some sleep. I can take over here." He shook his head feeling inordinately guilty.

"Molly, you should be resting." Molly, hollow –cheeked and pale, looking as if she had not slept at all, ignored him and settled herself in the vacant chair on the other side of her son's bed.

"And you know where I think you should be," she told him seriously, taking one of Bill's hands in her own and giving it a squeeze, "Life is too short, Remus." Both of them looked down to have her words confirmed, but in place of Bill's face all he saw was Robbie Montgomery's face laughing back at him.

"You don't understand-" His voice sounded strangled, tortured, and it broke before he could explain. "Look, look at what can happen, what I could do." Molly's answering look was as condemning as it was sympathetic.

"This was not you." She stood and moved round to his side of the bed, skirts swishing against the floor, to lay a hand on his shoulder. "You," she told him seriously, "Are not a monster."

His hands shook in his lap with supressed emotion and, although he was not utterly convinced, his eyes were filled with tears when he looked up at her. "Thank you." Molly smiled a sad smile, wondering what kind of things he had seen and been subjected to for that to be a compliment, but all she said was:

"You're welcome."


End file.
